Almost a new Sophie

Sophie at her best

Those of you who read my blog even occasionally know that I adore my dog, Sophie. Now almost nine years old (good golly!), she is half border collie, half miniature poodle, and all sparkle. Alternately mischievous, full of energy, and stubborn, she can also spend an entire day sleeping in the same room where I’m working..

Soph’s had some problems lately, principally allergies. Especially in the morning, she huffs and snuffs and coughs and—yeah, spits. Once I give her Benadryl, she’s okay, barring a few minor evening flare-ups.

But Sophie badly needed a bath and a haircut even when this quarantine started, so now, five and a half weeks in, she was really shaggy and—yeah, smelled a bit doggy. Besides I suspected that allergens were lurking in all that thick fur and a cut would make her feel better.

Apparently dog groomers are considered essential, so yesterday we broke quarantine just a bit and welcomed the mobile groomer to the house. (They do the grooming in their own trailers, not the house.) Jordan did all the dealing and left me in the cottage (less exposure for the vulnerable).. The groomer and I “had a moment,” via Jordan on the phone. The young groomer, her first time here, read my instructions that there would be no shaving and said Sophie’s face would have to be shaved. It was too matted. A long time ago a groomer, from this same company, taught me you never have to shave—you can always tease the matts out. Sophie’s face was cut way too short once before but it was my fault---I said to trim the moustache when I meant the beard. She spent six weeks looking like a fox. The part of her charm that is not in her silly, feisty personality is in that Benji-looking face. I held firm, and today I can feel a couple of mats. I’ll have to see if she’ll hold still for me to work on them.

But she is like a new dog—full of energy, sneezing less, just looks happier to me.

Sophie’s other problem was really a problem for me, not her. She got into the habit of wanting to go out at four or five in the morning. If she’d come right back in or mind my command to come, I could live with it. But she does neither. One early morning, she lay on the deck and watched my frustration grow for an hour. I offered cheese—her favorite treat—to no avail. I am not comfortable going back to bed and leaving her out—too many things can go bump in the dark.

So now Sophie, who was crate trained as a pup, sleeps in her crate. She doesn’t seem to mind and goes into it voluntarily some in the day. At night, when I’m ready to go to bed, she watches me prepare her treat—Benadryl wrapped in a sliver of Velveeta—and then runs to the crate. I never hear a peep out of her until she snuffles in the morning.

In my whole life, I have rarely lived without a dog. In the last fifty years, the only time I can remember was when my son took his dog, the second son’s dog died, and my dog died—seemed to happen all at once. It was six months before I got another dog—and that was probably seventeen years ago or so.

 When my kids were little, especially my younger son, we had cats, but I am not a cat person. Once when he was a late teen and had spent the summer elsewhere working, Jamie brought home a kitten. I had that cat for nineteen years and adored him. Part Maine Coon, he had a sweet, loving disposition and a lovely fluffy coat.

But I am a dog person. Sophie is my friend, my sounding board, my companion. I’m glad she’s feeling better. I could not live happily without a dog.